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December 26, 2015

 

 

The bench, my own

just for tonight.

Warm wooded slats,

the soul, to excite.

 

Free from the draught

of winter’s bite,

and wind blown leaves,

and doggy shite.

 

 

The bench, my own

til morning light.

The sky my ceiling,

twinkling bright.

 

No mortgage plan.

No rent arrears.

My shower – rain water,

hiding tears.

 

 

The bench, my own;

I slept well last night.

And awoke with new hope;

the aroma right.

 

Near my arm, a Big Mac:

I knew there was a god.

And a can of beer tied with tinsel

left by some kindly sod.

 

 

 

 

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November 1, 2015

 

 

I daily wait

at water’s edge.

My open heart

to him I pledge.

 

The point at which

we two last kissed,

I return to daily.

I can’t resist.

 

To recall the moment,

I never tire.

His love alone

all that I desire.

 

Please God let

his ship return.

And sight of bow

replace the stern.

 

I daily wait

at water’s edge.

My open heart

to him I pledge.

 

The one for me,

the only one.

My life on hold

since he’s been gone.

 

 

 

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October 6, 2015

 

 

Oh mind that sees me

short of rest,

in the wee small hours;

I do protest.

I need this time

to clear my head.

In the wee small hours

whilst in my bed.

 

Oh mind that keeps me

from shut eye,

in the wee small hours,

disturbed, I lie.

I need this time;

give me a break.

In the wee small hours,

for pity’s sake.

 

Oh mind that sends me

on the same dream,

in the wee small hours,

I awake and scream.

I need this time,

to keep my senses keen.

In the wee small hours

grant me, sleep serene.

 

 

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September 24, 2015

 

 

And towards the junction of the road,

undecided, dear Erasmus strode.

Three choices had he at this brow;

go left or right, or return home now.

 

But going left just wasn’t right;

the west not on his satellite,

and if going right, all that was left,

would the eastern star find him bereft?

 

So although freedom, Erasmus yearned,

from the unknown, his back he turned.

And no other option had he now,

but to seek out middle ground, somehow.

 

 

 

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And as we tread

the road to nowhere,

our onward journey

not in vain.

For with each step

around every corner

waits a new adventure

life cannot explain.

 

And as we tread

the road to nowhere,

a mistimed plan

can change the day

For with each step

around every corner,

courage of conviction

sees us pave the way.

 

And as we tread

the road to nowhere,

New horizons

ours to own.

For with each step

around every corner,

a trusted hand awaits;

we are not alone.

 

 

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May 2, 2015

 

 

and the window of

her soul; double glazed.

To keep out the sound.

To keep in fire, that blazed.

 

and the window of

her heart; single paned.

To gather moisture,

from cheeks, tear stained.

 

and the window of

her mind; thin plastic.

To scratch the surface

of a life, fantastic.

 

and the windows of

her eyes; fresh air.

No defense has she,

for she is not there.

 

 

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Is it anger?

Maybe.

Is it pent up

stress?

Is it

the end result?

Is it

collected mess?

 

Is it

the challenge

of the

high wire?

Is it

nostalgia,

setting

the soul on fire?

 

Is it

a platitude,

said to

fit in?

Is it

roaring passion

hidden

deep within?

 

Is it

life,

in it’s

rawest form?

Is it

the needle

in the eye

of the storm?

 

 

 

 

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March 28, 2015

 

 

Time lingered til

old taxes paid;

from past mistakes,

slow progress made.

 

Some buried deep,

or written off;

most still provide,

a nervous cough!

 

Austerity;

a word they knew;

an empty pot,

where no weeds grew.

 

A single Court

there couldn’t be,

for this double dose

of humility.

 

And when re-called to

the central chamber,

no justice done;

days of hard labour,

 

A reward not seen,

the crime to be fitting,

but with hindsight, proved,

the perfect flitting,

 

when passed onto

a higher being,

who saw more sense,

than they were seeing.

 

And cleared the path

of winters debris;

easing the route,

towards tranquillity.

 

Though, at the time

of deep despair,

no sign was seen

of a life still there. 

 .

The healing process,

ever slow,

but with trust and patience,

good times began to flow.

 

Yet, never forgotten,

or dismissed out of hand,

were desperate times of

foraging, off the land.

 

When dainty damascenes,

the pudding of the day,

and no lucky truffles found,

to ease the way.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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March 5, 2015

 

 

and music lulled

the sorrowed soul,

that spun, unchecked

out of control,

 

when modest tasks

too hard to master;

the mind in meltdown

heading towards disaster.

 

Until, at last

words to a tune,

lifted the spirit;

so high the moon.

 

On hearing Meatloaf’s

‘Bat out of hell’

a new day dawned.

All would be well.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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February 1, 2015

 

 

Throw off that blanket

of anonymity, and ride

bare-back into the

unknown.

 

 

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